The War Chronicles: Untold
by Brihna
Summary: A series of one-shots and drabbles set within the universe of The War Chronicles series. Genres will vary. Will add characters to the list as they become applicable. Rated T to be safe.
1. Withdrawal

**_Greetings, readers!_**

**_So, this is an idea that I have had for quite some time, though I had not planned on pursuing it until after the series was finished. I knew that I would never want to permanently leave this universe that I have created, so I decided that I would keep a story open in which I would share a series of one-shots and various drabbles set within the universe of The War Chronicles series._**

**_I am currently in the planning stage of REVOLUTION and I've sort of hit a block, so I came up with an idea:_**

**_Why not open up my little one-shot page now? _**

**_I've been filling the TARDIS journal I do all of my writing in with a lot of drabbles lately anyway in an attempt to get my creative juices flowing, so I figured, why not share some of them? (At least the readable ones, that is, lol.) That way, maybe I can work out some of my little plot bunnies and still give you guys some little tidbits to tide you over until I can get my shit together on the main story! :P_**

**_So here's the deal with these:_**

**_The stories you will find here are not necessarily going to be in any kind of order (or necessarily be very long). At the top of each, I'll probably give some kind of little summary to let you know where it's happening in the timeline. There will likely be some "deleted scenes" of sorts included here, or just little things I'd like to share that I feel don't exactly fit in the main story. Really, these will just be whatever happens into my head within this universe._**

**_So, I hope you enjoy this first little drabble! I think the date and title of this one should probably give you a good enough idea of what's happening in this one, so I'll leave you to it._**

**_Please share your thoughts and feel free to throw out any requests! It may help my writer's block. ;) _**

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><p><em>Summary: Only in the darkest times does one fully appreciate the light…<em>

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><p><strong><span>Withdrawal<span>**

_Essex, 1969_

He deserved this.

The more he began to remember, the more the faces of his victims haunted his dreams, Mitchell realized; he deserved this.

He often wondered what his old parish priest would say, what penance he could possibly do to atone for all his sins. Because it wasn't just the faces of his victims that plagued his nightmares; it was hellfire. So vivid he could feel the flames, hear the screams of the damned- his fellow prisoners sentenced to eternal torment. But that was the fate of all murderers, wasn't it? How could he ever hope for anything but Hell? It was what he deserved.

What he didn't deserve was comfort.

He didn't deserve the strong arms that would envelope him when he woke up screaming during the night- the whispered words promising it was going to get better. And yet he accepted these things without hesitation, because if there was one thing that becoming a vampire had instilled in him, it was self-preservation. And cowardice.

The first few times he had been only vaguely aware of this presence, having been half delirious from withdrawal and the terror of his nightmares. He had clung to the figure like a lifeline, seeking an anchor to the waking world. At first he had been confused, disoriented.

He could recall a time during his childhood; both he and his mother were suffering from a terrible fever that had plagued their village, leaving his father struggling to care for them both and still keep up with his work. During those nights he was often plagued with terrible nightmares as well, likely brought on by the fever. But he always awoke in his father's arms, to comforting words in the darkness, and there he would remain until he fell asleep once more. It was a memory he had not recalled for decades.

But the arms that he awoke to of late were not his father's, the whispered words spoken to him were English, not the melodic Gaelic of his upbringing. And yet he found comfort, he felt safe, just as he had on those nights long ago when he was just a boy. Only these nightmares were so much more terrible than the fever induced apparitions of his childhood.

There were nights that left him so shaken that he couldn't bear to be left alone, nights he thought that it would be better to end it all- resign himself to his fate. And it was those nights that Lucian would stay. Mitchell would fall asleep with his head on his shoulder and in the morning he would awaken with an arm draped protectively over his side. He slept better for it.

As his mind began to clear over the weeks that followed, he wondered why this man he had never known before would go to such lengths to come to his aid- the man who had originally been sent to kill him. When he asked, the older man had spoken to him of forgiveness and second chances; things he himself had not believed he deserved. Yet that was exactly what he had been given; a second chance. After all the weeks of being buried by guilt and fear, he discovered something else…

Hope.


	2. War Stories

_Summary: Wounds attained in battle don't always leave visible scars…_

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><p><strong><span>War Stories<span>**

_Liverpool, 30 April 1971_

It was late on a Friday evening as Lucian led the way to a corner pub a few miles from where he and Mitchell were staying. Before they could step inside, Mitchell stopped on the pavement, narrowing his eyes at the building before sparing the older man a sideways glance.

"What?" asked Lucian, half amused at the rather accusatory look on Mitchell's face.

He shook his head. "You know, when you said you wanted to go to a pub I _thought_ you were actually planning on taking a night off for once."

"What makes you think I'm not?" he asked innocently.

"Oh, so you _didn't_ know that this was a favored hunting ground for local vampires," answered Mitchell, folding his arms across his chest.

Lucian shrugged. "I like to keep an eye on things," he said. "Doesn't mean we can't still make a night of it."

Mitchell rolled his eyes. "You're impossible, old man. You know that?" he answered with amusement, knowing full well how he hated the epithet. But, he was quickly reminded to be out of reach when he used it. Before he could realize his error, Lucian flung an arm around his neck, trapping him in a head lock.

"If I'm the old man, how come I've got faster reflexes than you?" he teased.

"Get off!" Mitchell protested, though it was difficult to take the demand seriously through his laughter.

Satisfied that he'd made his point, Lucian finally let him go. "Come on," he said, pushing the younger man towards the door. "Let's not stand out here all night."

"Fine," he answered. "But I'm gonna get some drinks."

The two made their way inside and Mitchell wove his way through the crowded pub, making his way to the bar while Lucian went to find them a seat. The bar itself was pretty packed, but he managed to find an opening to the left of an old man seated on a barstool who was speaking a bit louder than necessary to the rather harried barkeep. Mitchell couldn't help listening in as he leaned against the counter, waiting his turn.

"And you know why they called it no man's land?" the old man was saying. "Because no man in their right mind would cross it! Land mines, barbed wire, mortar rounds flying past your head; that's what we had to push through. Can't tell you how many I saw get blown to bits right in front of my eyes. And good lads they were too. Good mates."

The man took a long drink from the pint glass in his hand and Mitchell couldn't help but stare for a moment. A flood of memories came rushing back to him of his own time in the trenches, bringing to mind names and faces that he hadn't recalled in years. He realized with a jolt that the old man seated to his right had to be close to his own age. He couldn't help wondering if they had ever crossed paths on the battlefield.

Sensing his gaze, the man turned, eyeing Mitchell critically. "What is it, lad?" he said. "Too graphic of a depiction for you?"

Mitchell recovered quickly. "No, sir," he answered, suppressing a grin. _'Too graphic,'_ he thought. _If he only knew…_ "I just, uh…" He chose his next words carefully. "I've heard the stories, that's all. Just not for a long time now."

The man nodded. "Your granddad fought in the Great War, did he?" he asked.

"Yeah," he lied easily. "He, uh, he used to tell me about it."

"Well, don't get any fanciful ideas about it," said the man. "War is hell. Make no mistake about that."

"Alright then, Bert," the barkeep cut in. "Don't go harassing the other patrons with your anecdotes now."

"It's alright," Mitchell answered.

He ordered his drinks, including another for the old man who had emptied his glass, and paid the barkeep. When he got his drink he turned to the man and lifted his glass. "To the ones that didn't make it home," he said.

For a moment the old man simply stared at him, seemingly at a loss for words. Finally he nodded, raising his glass. "To the ones that didn't make it home," he echoed, and the two drank to their fallen comrades.

Lucian looked up when Mitchell finally made his way back, giving the younger man a questioning look. "What took you so long?" he asked good naturedly as he set their drinks on the table and slid into the booth.

Mitchell shook his head. "I guess I just realized how old I am," he answered. He filled him in on the conversation he had with the man at the bar and Lucian nodded.

"Well, some things never change," he said. "For a thousand years, old men have sat around campfires and in taverns, drinking and telling war stories. That could've been you by now if you hadn't been Turned," he grinned, nodding towards the man at the bar.

Mitchell shook his head. "No, I don't think so," he said. "I knew I was never going to make it out of there alive." He took a sip of his drink. "Well… I suppose I was half right about that anyway."

Lucian nodded in understanding, staring down at the glass in his hands.

"But I'm sure all of my war stories pale in comparison to the things you've seen," he continued.

"I wouldn't go that far," answered Lucian. "War is just as brutal as it was when I stood outside the walls of Nicaea if you ask me. If, perhaps, in different ways. Each new generation just keeps coming up with more creative ways of destroying one another. Only, I think the main difference in the last couple of generations is that humanity seems to have finally grown tired of the brutality of it all. Young men no longer romanticize the idea of dying in battle the way they did when I was young. In fact, just last week there was a group of veterans in Washington D.C. protesting America's involvement in Vietnam. And from the things I've heard about it, I can't say that I blame them."

"But you didn't romanticize the idea of dying in battle," said Mitchell.

"No," he answered with a weak smile. "At least, not when it came down to it."

"Is that why you chose this?" Mitchell asked tentatively. He was aware of the basic facts surrounding Lucian's Turning, the older man had spoken of it not long after they met, but never in great detail. He only knew that he had been fatally wounded at some point before reaching Antioch during the First Crusade. The vampire who would become his Sire had come to him offering an alternative to his imminent death and he had accepted. Mitchell had always been curious as to why a man who would have believed he was about to go to Heaven had chosen to become a vampire; one of the Damned, as the legends taught.

For a moment, Lucian was silent, taking a long drink as he contemplated how to respond. It was a time in his life that he had not spoken of in detail to anyone for centuries. There were still certain parts of his past that he did not feel comfortable sharing. He felt it would only serve to reopen old wounds; bring to the surface memories that were too painful to recall. Although, if he was perfectly honest with himself, it was hard having next to no one know who he really was and how he came to be this way. He had forgotten what it was like to have someone to share his experiences with before he found Mitchell, and the truth was, he had grown quite fond of him in the past two years that they had been traveling together. Though he knew he wouldn't be able to bring himself to tell the full story, he decided that there was more that he was willing to tell.

"I suppose in the end I realized that the Crusade was not a cause worth dying for," he began. "We were all led to believe that we were on some sort of 'mission from God' to reclaim the Holy Land when it was really nothing more than a power struggle. If I had doubts going in, it didn't matter. I was the Lord of Leicester, I didn't have a choice. It was my duty to the king. And so, I was either too naïve or just looking for a way to sleep better at night, but I chose to believe the former; and I chose to believe that my comrades felt the same. But I was wrong on both counts. My death didn't come at Nicaea, or even at Dorylaeum where we were ambushed. It wasn't a Turkish sword that pierced my armor that day. It was a Norman's."

Mitchell stared at the older man in shock as the weight of his words sank in. "You mean, one of the other _crusaders_ attacked you?"

Lucian nodded. "He was another lord; one of my neighbors. The march to Antioch was a nightmare. We were dangerously low on supplies, and while some of the villages along the road offered their aid, many of the knights had taken to simply looting and pillaging any settlement we came across. His men had been among the first. When I accused him of allowing supposedly Christian men to behave like barbarians, he drew his sword. We fought, I lost. As I lay dying, I realized none of it had been worth it. When Antony came to me offering the chance to not only continue living but fight for a noble cause, I took it."

"And what cause was that?" asked Mitchell.

"Protecting what it means to be _human_," he answered. "Whether that meant killing rogue vampires or the crusaders that ravaged innocent villages, that was our goal. I had finally found something I could get behind."

"So that's what all this is about," said Mitchell, indicating their surroundings. "You've never stopped."

Lucian shrugged, offering a small smile. "I'll always be a soldier, I suppose," he answered. "It's all I know."

As if on cue, the door opened behind Mitchell, and Lucian must have sensed something because he sat up straighter in his seat, fixated on the man who had just entered the pub.

Mitchell turned, following the path of his gaze, and recognized the man as one of Herrick's more recent recruits, Turned not long before he and his Sire had parted ways. He turned back and sat a little lower in his seat, hoping he hadn't been spotted, and tightened his grip on the glass in his hand. All the while, Lucian did not take his eyes off the man by the door.

As if sensing the intensity of his gaze, the man turned and locked eyes with Lucian. Whether he recognized him or was simply that intimidated by his stare, they would never know. Lucian couldn't help his self-satisfied smirk as the man immediately turned and headed back out the door.

Mitchell chanced a glance over his shoulder just as the door swung shut behind the retreating form.

"I will say it's nice when I don't even have to get out of my chair," said Lucian, taking a sip of his drink.

Mitchell grinned, relaxing his grip on his glass.

"So how did you know this place was a favored hunting ground for rogues?" Lucian asked.

Mitchell shrugged. "I used to come here from time to time," he answered, not meeting his gaze. "With Herrick." He didn't elaborate.

Lucian nodded, understanding what was left unsaid. It seemed they both had stories they preferred not to tell. Not yet.

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><p><strong><em>So… that took about ten times longer than I thought it would…<em>**

**_I came up with the idea for this one-shot literally the day I posted the first one. It just ended up requiring A LOT more research I suppose. (Three different wars to fill in the gaps in my knowledge and to help me fill out Lucian's back story in my head.) Plus, on a personal note, I just got promoted! So work has been keeping me more busy than usual._**

**_I must confess that I have another 900 odd words written that I originally intended to be included in this one-shot, but the more I wrote, the more I realized that it would be better saved until later. So, I won't be divulging Lucian's full story until near the end of Revolution. So sorry to those of you who have been dying to know more about Lucian's past! Particularly where his son is concerned. But hey, think of it this way; you guys will get to hear the whole story just as soon as Mitchell does. ;)_**

**_I'm still in the heavy planning stages on Revolution, so no ETA on that yet, unfortunately. But I have been coming up with a lot of horrible ideas! (The evil plot-bunnies are winning…)_**

**_Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this further insight into Lucian's past!_**

**_Side note: I'm really frustrated with myself that I haven't come up with a casting choice for Antony (Lucian's Sire) yet, so if you have any brilliant ideas, feel free to throw them out there!_**

**_Thanks for reading! If I can't get Revolution rolling soon, I'll at least try to keep this thing going. It HAS helped me creatively, I will say. Again, feel free to throw out any prompts/ideas/suggestions of things you'd like to see. :)_**

**_I'd like to thank wikipedia, _****The Complete Idiot's Guide to the Crusades_, and my wonderful sister; the history buff and perpetual sounding board to my musings, for helping me make this thing possible. :P_**


	3. Doubt

_Summary: Lucian and Mitchell investigate a vampire attack, but there may be more to this killing than meets the eye…_

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><p><strong><span>Doubt<span>**

_Liverpool, May 1971_

He should have known better than to follow Lucian on this particular errand. Trips to the morgue were never pleasant and had a nasty habit of bringing to the surface old memories that he was still struggling to forget. But whether out of boredom or some masochistic desire to continually punish himself for past sins, Mitchell had decided to go along anyway.

"When I'd heard you were in town, I thought you should be the first to know about this," the white-haired coroner was saying to Lucian as he led them back into the morgue. "They're getting bolder. This one was found not two blocks from here."

Lucian frowned at this, but said nothing.

They approached the metal table with a sheet drawn up over a human shape and the coroner drew back the covering, revealing a young woman who had to have been in her early twenties at most. She was quite lovely, aside from the jagged wound in her throat.

"She wasn't even completely drained," he explained. "Whoever did this was either in a rush or they were interrupted."

"Or they were looking to send a message," said Lucian darkly, leaning over to study the figure more closely.

Mitchell stood at his side, trying to appear as cool and collected as the older man ever was in these situations, but the longer he forced himself to gaze at the corpse on the slab, the more unnerved he became.

Finally, he'd had enough. He needed to get out of that room.

"I'm gonna step outside," he said softly.

Lucian turned, blue eyes searching his face before giving a short nod, his understanding made clear by the simple gesture.

"Not getting squeamish, are you lad?" said the coroner. "I figured vampires were used to these things."

"Just indulging a bad habit," Mitchell answered coolly, retrieving a cigarette from the tin in his inside pocket and heading towards the door.

"Oh, you don't want to do that now," the coroner called after him. "Those things'll kill you!"

He could still hear the man laughing at his own bad joke as the door to the morgue swung shut behind him and he made his way toward the exit.

The sun was just beginning to set as he stepped outside and there was a bit of a chill in the air. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself, the cigarette held between his lips as he started to move away from the door.

He knew that Lucian wasn't a big fan of his smoking, often arguing that just because his lungs would repair themselves didn't mean he should actively destroy them, but Mitchell was simply trading one addiction for another, he'd explained. Having given up the drug-like high of the blood of a fresh kill, he needed something else to fixate on when the cravings started, and smoking helped settle his nerves. So, Lucian didn't really give him a hard time about it anymore. Especially at times like this. He had thought he was doing better with it, but seeing that body just now had only served to remind him that he was still haunted by the sins of his past. He needed a distraction.

Feeling too exposed standing in front of the building while there was still daylight, Mitchell opted to duck around the corner and stand in the mouth of the alley before lighting up. He retrieved a book of matches from his jacket pocket, having still been partial to the old method just as he still preferred to roll his own cigarettes, but for the life of him he couldn't get the match to ignite. He would have liked to blame the sudden breeze that had picked up, but he needed to stop his hands from shaking first.

"Need a light?"

Mitchell started at the voice, cursing himself for being too preoccupied to notice the figure creeping up behind him, but he recovered quickly, taking the proffered lighter from the man's outstretched hand and lighting his cigarette.

"Who still uses matches anyway?" said the man, taking back the lighter as it was returned and depositing it in the front pocket of his jacket. "You're showing your age, Mitchell."

He took a long drag from his cigarette and held it for a moment before letting it out slowly. "What are you doing here, Steven?" he asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Looking for you," he answered. "Herrick wanted me to make sure you understood his message."

Mitchell stared at him, confused. He hadn't heard a word from his Sire in more than two years and had preferred to keep it that way. Still, he couldn't stop himself from asking, "What message?"

The man grinned. "The girl," he said, nodding toward the building behind them. "She was for you. He wanted you to see what you've been missing. Or are you really that into playing 'good cop' now that you didn't figure it out?"

Mitchell stood silent as the words sank in. The dead girl in the morgue; Herrick had done that just to get his attention? He suddenly felt sick, but he kept his composure. "And he thought that showing me that dead girl would accomplish what, exactly?"

"He wants you to come back," Steven responded, as if this was obvious. "He said he's willing to forgive this past two years' indiscretions and bring you back into the fold. He wants you to lead alongside him. All you have to do is say the word."

"_He's_ willing to forgive-" Mitchell was furious. He dropped his cigarette on the ground, extinguishing it with his boot, and took a step forward. Though the man was much larger than him, he stood toe to toe, challenging him with his gaze. "That bastard left me for dead. Do you understand? I could wait a thousand years to see his face again and it would be too soon. So you can tell Herrick to go screw himself. I'm not gonna be his poster boy. Not this time. He doesn't own me anymore."

Steven stared at him. "I can't believe you," he said. "You'd pass up a chance at real power in favor of, what? Shadowing a poor excuse for a vampire like Lucian Harcourt?" He shook his head in disgust. "You're just as weak as he is."

Mitchell sneered at him. "Yeah? That's not what you were saying when you ran away at the sight of him last month."

In hindsight, it was probably unwise to taunt the much larger vampire.

In one swift motion, he had Mitchell by the throat, slamming his head against the brick wall hard enough to make him see stars. He clawed at the hand crushing his windpipe, but the grip only tightened as he struggled.

"But I haven't explained option two yet," said Steven, leaning in close to his ear. "You see, Herrick suspected that you might refuse. And he said if that was the case, then you were a liability. Now, what do you suppose he asked me to do about that?" He lifted him higher, pressing his back against the wall so that his feet were barely touching the ground. And Mitchell couldn't help the pained whimper that escaped him as the hand closed even tighter around his throat.

As darkness began to creep into the edges of his vision, he caught a blur of movement over the large man's shoulder. Before he could register what he was seeing, the figure pinning him against the wall went rigid, the grip loosening on his throat. He glanced down and could see the bloody tip of the silver stake protruding from the man's chest directly through his heart.

As the figure crumbled away to ash, Mitchell collapsed against the wall, massaging his throat as he gasped for air. He closed his eyes as the world began to spin and felt a pair of hands grip him by the arms. When he opened them again, he found a pair of blue eyes staring back at him with concern.

"Are you alright?" asked Lucian, not relinquishing his hold.

"M'fine," Mitchell responded hoarsely, waving him off.

Lucian finally released him, but he stayed close, not liking how unsteady the younger man seemed on his feet.

"I know who killed that girl," he stated simply.

"Tell me later," he answered. "Let's get you home first."

Lucian insisted on taking a cab back to their flat and the pair road in silence, not wishing to discuss anything in front of the driver, and that suited Mitchell just fine. His head was pounding. By the time they reached their destination, he could hardly see straight, and so he didn't object to Lucian taking him by the arm and leading him up the stairs.

As soon as they got in the door, he immediately collapsed into one of the chairs at the kitchen table while Lucian locked up behind them. The older man then crossed to him and knelt down to eye level. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"M'head hurts," Mitchell answered groggily.

He cupped his chin, staring into unfocused brown eyes with concern. "I think you have a concussion," he concluded, releasing him and rising to his feet.

"Mmm," was his only response, and Mitchell leaned over the table, burying his face in his arms.

He could hear Lucian moving around the kitchen, every sound amplified by his vampiric hearing and the pounding in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and retreated further, trying to block out the sounds.

The unmistakably familiar scent of blood reached him and he cracked open an eye as Lucian slid a glass across the table to him. He eyed it reprovingly.

Lucian sighed. "You can't go off blood completely," he said.

"I can try," he mumbled into his arms.

"Now's not the time to be stubborn," he answered. "We've been through this. Your body can't produce its own blood anymore. You have to drink. Come on," he said, nudging his arm. "You'll feel better."

Reluctantly, Mitchell lifted his head, taking the proffered glass. He downed it as quickly as he could. The bagged blood was still pretty unappealing.

He started to feel better almost immediately, the pounding in his head fading to a dull throbbing. His throat even felt less tight.

"Do you want the rest of it?" Lucian asked expectantly.

He nodded.

By the time he finished, he felt completely exhausted. Lucian led him into the living room where he dropped down on the couch, and before he could assure the older man that he felt completely fine, he fell asleep.

Mitchell awoke a few hours later, lying on his side with a pillow under his head and a blanket drawn up over his shoulders. He sat up slowly, blinking into the darkness and found that he was alone in the living room. He rose from the couch, and upon further inspection of the rest of the flat, could find no trace of Lucian anywhere. Concluding that the older man must have stepped out, he gathered some fresh clothes from his room and padded down the hall to the bathroom.

Once he had showered and dressed, he stepped back out to discover that Lucian had still not returned. He dropped down onto the couch and was about to turn on the television when there was a knock at the front door.

Mitchell froze, instantly on the alert. Who could be knocking at two o'clock in the morning? He got up slowly and crossed to the door, pressing himself against it to look through the peephole. His eyes widened in recognition of the figure on the other side and he took a step back, trying to decide what he should do.

"Open up, Mitchell," came the voice from the other side. "I know you're there. I just want to talk to you."

Clenching his jaw, Mitchell steeled himself. He reached for the door handle and pulled it open, glaring down at the man in the police uniform standing on the doorstep.

"Well, aren't you going to invite me in?" asked Herrick after a moment's silence.

"Nice try," Mitchell answered with a sneer, folding his arms across his chest. "What, are you posing as a cop now?"

"No, not posing," he said. "Joining the police force has its benefits, you see. It's a lot easier to clean up the messes."

"I'll bet," said Mitchell. "How did you find me, anyway?"

"Oh, I have my sources just as your friend Lucian has his," said Herrick. "You didn't think you could hide forever, did you?"

"I'm not hiding," he responded, though his voice lacked the conviction he'd intended.

"I see," said Herrick, flashing his predatory grin. "I take it you got my message."

"I take it you got my answer."

"Well, not really," he said. "You see, piles of ash aren't very good at delivering messages."

"Neither are corpses," came the retort.

Herrick grinned. "Listen to you; so self-righteous. I think the old man is rubbing off on you."

"Better him than you," Mitchell shot back.

Herrick never faltered. "And how long do you suppose that's going to last? You think you can tag along with one of the Old Ones for the rest of your days? Lucian Harcourt doesn't get attached to people, he travels alone. And he certainly doesn't spend his time 'rehabilitating' rogue vampires. Sooner or later his charity is going to run out and he'll decide you're more trouble than you're worth, and where will that leave you? I think we both know that you don't manage very well on your own. What are you going to do then, Mitchell?"

He wanted to speak, but he found that the words only stuck in his throat. He settled for glaring at the older man instead.

Herrick gave a satisfied grin. "My offer still stands," he declared. "Come and find me when the time comes." And with that he turned and headed down the hall, disappearing from sight.

Mitchell stood for a moment longer before finally coming to his senses and closing the door, locking it behind him. He shuffled back into the living room and dropped onto the couch, staring absently at the blank television screen. He tried to bring himself to turn it on, but he couldn't even move. All he could focus on were Herrick's words running through his head.

How long _had_ he expected this arrangement to last? He hadn't really thought about it before. Maybe because he was afraid of what the answer would be. _But we've been travelling together for more than two years, never apart, _he reasoned. _Neither of us has ever even hinted that we wanted things to be different._

_You think so? _countered the voice in his head that sounded an awful lot like Herrick._ Then where is he now?_

Mitchell sat frozen for almost an hour, caught in an internal debate, until he finally caught the telltale sound of a key turning in the lock and the front door opened. He didn't even look up as Lucian stepped inside, locking the door behind him and removing his jacket before crossing to the living room.

"I didn't think you'd be awake," said Lucian as he stepped around the back of the couch, taking a seat beside him.

"Where'd you go?" Mitchell inquired without looking up.

"I was just taking care of a few things," he answered simply.

He just nodded.

When Mitchell continued to stare blankly at the opposite wall, Lucian finally broke the silence. "What's wrong?"

"I think we should move on," he said suddenly. "Someone was here earlier, this place isn't safe anymore."

Lucian sat up straighter, eyes shifting around the room as if he might find some unnamed intruder hiding in the shadows. "Alright," he answered finally. "We'll leave in the morning."

He was about to rise from his seat, but Mitchell wasn't through. "I think," he said, "that we should go separately."

There was a brief pause, then Lucian said, "If that's what you want."

Mitchell's heart sank. Admittedly, he had hoped that the older man wouldn't be so quick to agree, but he dismissed the thought. He was being childish.

"Or is this about something else?" he pressed, picking up on his abnormally subdued behavior. "You said you knew who killed that girl."

"_I_ killed that girl," he answered bitterly. "At least, she's dead because of me, so I just as good as."

"What are you talking about?" asked Lucian, perplexed by this sudden revelation.

Mitchell sighed, still refusing to meet his gaze. "It was Herrick," he explained. "He was trying to get my attention; show me what I'm missing."

Lucian frowned. "What about that vampire in the alley?" he asked.

He shook his head. "Steven was just the messenger," he answered. "He said that Herrick was willing to 'forgive me' and he wanted me to come back."

"And are you going to?" asked Lucian, his expression unreadable.

Mitchell stared at him. "Of _course_ not. How could-" He cut himself off, unable to hold the gaze of those piercing blue eyes. He took a breath. "Look, the point is, this isn't gonna stop. Herrick is a stubborn bastard. He'll keep at it until he gets what he wants, one way or another. You've got enough to deal with without my problems and you've done more than enough for me already."

Lucian shook his head. "You say that like I've kept you around out of charity," he said lightly.

Mitchell cringed inwardly, but said nothing.

"It's called being a friend, Mitchell," he continued, turning serious. "I 'deal' with your problems because I care about you. Don't you know that?"

_Yeah, but for how long?_ he thought miserably. "I just… think we'd both be better off if I went it alone for a while," he answered softly.

Lucian gave him a long, hard look. "Is that you talking or _him_?"

He didn't answer.

"He was here, wasn't he?" he pressed. "Is that what this is really about?"

Again he remained silent, staring down at his hands in his lap.

"I'll tell you what," said Lucian, inching a little closer so they sat shoulder to shoulder. "If you can look me in the eye and honestly say that you'd rather be on your own right now, then tomorrow, we'll go our separate ways. I won't say another word about it. I'm not about to try and control your life; I'm not Herrick. Just tell me what you want to do."

After a long pause, Mitchell finally lifted his head, brown eyes connecting with steel blue… but he couldn't bring himself to lie. He released a heavy sigh. "I just don't want to be a burden," he answered almost inaudibly.

Lucian shook his head. "You are only ever a burden on yourself. Hasn't it ever occurred to you that I might just like having you around? Or did you just hit your head harder than I thought?" he teased, evoking a small smile out of the younger man as he nudged him with his shoulder.

"Look, whatever Herrick said, don't even think on it," he continued. "He's only trying to manipulate you. You should know that better than anyone."

"I know," said Mitchell. "I suppose I was just… _afraid_… that he was right."

"About what?" asked Lucian.

He paused for a moment, weighing his words. "That I was going to end up alone," he said finally. "And that eventually I'd _have_ to go back to him because I couldn't bear it."

"What makes you think you're going to end up alone?" he asked, studying him closely.

"Because-" Mitchell sighed. He might as well just say it. "Because you're used to being on your own, you don't travel with anyone. All I do is slow you down and- don't give me that look, you know it's true- Anyway, you've got more important things to deal with without me getting in the way. I'm just afraid that one day you're gonna realize that I cause more trouble than I'm worth and then you'll _have_ to move on."

Lucian shook his head, his anger at Mitchell's Sire building. "Did you let him feed you that line as well?" he accused, speaking a bit more harshly than he had intended.

The younger man opened his mouth to fire back a retort, but found he had nothing to offer. Instead, he simply retreated further into his corner of the couch, folding his arms protectively across his chest and turning his face away to stare at the opposite wall. "You didn't say it wasn't true," he muttered under his breath.

Lucian sighed, feeling his anger dissipate. "I didn't think I needed to," he answered.

He noticed Mitchell's shoulders relax slightly, but he continued to sit in silence. He decided to try a different tactic. "Come here," he said, slipping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him closer.

The younger man was slightly resistant at first, but he finally gave in, pressing himself against his side and resting his head against his shoulder with a defeated sigh.

"I have a confession to make," said Lucian softly.

"And what's that?" Mitchell indulged when the older man seemed to be waiting for an answer.

"When we left Essex two years ago, after you got back on your feet, I didn't decide to take you with me out of concern that you'd relapse," he began. "I did it for entirely selfish reasons."

Mitchell lifted his head, looking up at him in confusion. "I don't understand."

"Don't you?" he questioned. "Because I did it for the same reason as you. I didn't want to be alone. The only difference was, I didn't realize it until I met you. I'd spent so many years in solitude that, up until then, I had forgotten what I was missing."

For a moment, the younger man stared at him in bewilderment as the words began to sink in. "Really?" he asked, unable to think of anything else to say.

Lucian nodded. "So you see?" he continued with a grin. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

Mitchell quirked an eyebrow at him. "Is that a threat?" he smirked.

"That's a promise," came the reply, his teasing tone turning serious.

In the darkness of that small flat in Liverpool, brown eyes studied blue, searching for the slightest trace of hesitation behind those words, but the older man did not waver. Satisfied, Mitchell simply nodded. "Good."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Once again, that took longer than expected… I had planned to post this earlier today, but I ended up stuck at the car dealership for about 3 12 hours. But, hey, I got a new car! Happy early birthday to me! Lol._**

**_Anyway, I realize this has sort of turned into the Early Adventures of Mitchell and Lucian, but I hope you guys like it!_**

**_Lately, I've actually sort of come to regret getting rid of Herrick so early on in the series because I keep coming up with new ideas. But then I realized I have about 40 years worth of timeline gap to play with, and so here we are! Expect to see more of Herrick from time to time._**

**_So, thanks for reading! Please share your thoughts. :)_**


	4. Grief

_Summary: Everyone grieves differently; some in less healthy ways than others..._

* * *

><p><strong><span>Grief<span>**

_Long Island, New York, 14 November 1979_

New England was beautiful in autumn; or rather 'fall' as they called it in the States, Mitchell was constantly reminding himself. The leaves of the trees that shaded the row house where he and Lucian had recently taken up residence were an array of gold and orange and red, casting a warm glow across the kitchen tiles as the last light of day poured in through the windows. It had been a quiet afternoon, Lucian having gone out fairly early on the usual business. Mitchell had found that he didn't have the stomach for it this time and had opted to stay home instead, but then he hadn't felt right for the past couple of days. Lucian had said it was probably just the nerves associated with being someplace new and unfamiliar; after all, they were pretty far from home, but it felt like more than that. He didn't know how else to put it; Mitchell was depressed.

As he sat at the kitchen table, absently flicking through the newspaper that had been dropped on the doorstep earlier that day, he found himself skimming through the obituaries. It was a rather morbid habit that many of the vampires shared; reading about the recently deceased, but to Mitchell it never failed to give him some perspective. Especially as more and more of those pages of late were being filled with his contemporaries.

He was just about to toss the paper aside, realizing that none of this was helping his mood, when a name suddenly jumped off the page at him as clearly as if was his own. But then, it nearly _was_ his own…

_Joseph C. Mitchell passed away after a lengthy battle with lung cancer on Nov. 12th surrounded by close family and friends. He enlisted in the British Army during World War I at the age of 18, seeking after his older brother, John, who had previously enlisted and never returned home. Joe was honorably discharged shortly before the war's end in 1918 after receiving a gunshot wound that nearly cost him his leg and his life. He left his native Ireland and moved to Brooklyn in 1920, where he worked as a carpenter until he retired. He met his wife, Catherine D. Mitchell later in 1921, and they were married 56 years before Catherine passed in June of last year following a stroke. Joe is survived by one son, Connor J. Mitchell; daughter-in-law, Alice; and granddaughter, Josephine, age 11. Services to be held Friday the 16th at St. Brigid's Catholic Church in Westbury._

For the longest time, Mitchell sat and stared at the paper in his hands, trying to make sense out of the words on the page.

After Mitchell was Turned and he left his regiment to find Herrick, he knew he would be labeled a deserter; that was the legacy he'd leave behind, what they would tell his parents. He should have known that wouldn't be good enough for his little brother, Joe.

Mitchell had never thought much of himself growing up. Most of the kids his age had been a lot bigger than him and he was bullied a lot, but none of that had ever mattered to Joe. His little brother idolized him, following him everywhere like a second shadow. Wherever he went and whatever he did, Joe was always close behind.

He never reached out to his family after he was Turned. What could he have said to them? He was a monster; Herrick made him that way. He had always felt that it was better if he never saw them again. He knew his parents had died sometime in the early 50's; within months of each other. Herrick had come across his mother's obituary on one of their trips to the States and showed it to him. He hadn't even known his parents had emigrated.

"I guess you're an orphan now," he'd said. He was almost gloating.

Now it seemed that none of his family would ever know what really happened to him. He set the paper on the table and placed his head in his hands.

When the sun had finally set and the kitchen grew dark, he lifted his head, rubbing his eyes. He knew Lucian would likely not return until late, so he'd never be missed. In Mitchell's mind there was only one thing for him to do tonight; it was time to go out and get pissed.

He opted to walk rather than call for a cab. He was used to walking everywhere and it always had a way of relaxing him. He only hoped that he would remember the way back later; he'd only been in the neighborhood for a couple of weeks.

He eventually wandered into a corner pub about a mile or so from the house and took a seat at the bar. The place was Irish themed, which always amused him away from home, but he found it fitting tonight.

After a couple of hours, the place really started to fill up and the noise was beginning to give him a headache. He was decently drunk at this point and decided that he should head back before he lost the ability to see straight. The bartender offered to call a cab, but Mitchell waved him off and headed out the door.

The air had gotten colder in the past couple hours and he pulled his jacket tighter around himself, turning up the collar before shoving his hands in his pockets. He'd been walking for about 20 minutes when he suddenly came to a stop, realizing that nothing on his current path looked familiar. He let out a curse and decided to double back; he must have missed a turn somewhere. He was so preoccupied with trying to determine the name of the street up ahead that he didn't notice the man step out of the alley behind him- until he felt something sharp pressing into his back.

"Don't turn around," commanded the voice.

Mitchell froze, focusing his muddled senses to assess the threat. If he hadn't had so much to drink, he would have heard the man a mile off. When he concentrated, he could hear the frantic beating of his heart. _Human_. Perfect.

"You are making a very big mistake," said Mitchell in a low growl.

"Shut up," said the man. "Empty your pockets. Everything you've got. Now!"

"I'm not going to do that," Mitchell answered, managing to keep the edge to his voice though his words were a little slurred. "What I am going to do is give you three seconds to get as far away from me as you can. I won't turn around, so I'll never see your face, and we can pretend this whole thing never happened. I keep my things, you keep your life. I'm being more than generous."

"I said, _shut up_," growled the man, pressing the blade harder into his back. "Do as I say or I'll just take everything off your corpse."

Mitchell laughed darkly. "It's a little late for that, mate." He spun around, disarming the man in one swift motion, a little sluggish for a vampire but still faster than any human, and he had the element of surprise on his side. He dragged the man back into the alley and pinned him against the wall. "I'm already dead," he said coldly, and sank his fangs into his throat.

* * *

><p>Mitchell awoke to golden sunlight on his face and a nasty kink in his neck; in fact his whole body ached. He realized belatedly that he was sitting up in what felt like a hard backed chair and he groaned, wondering why he had chosen such an uncomfortable piece of furniture to pass out on. The floor would have served him better. He rolled his head around, feeling his neck crack as he did so, and tried to stretch his arms- but he couldn't move. His eyes flew open with a gasp.<p>

He discovered that he was indeed sitting in a hard backed chair in the middle of the kitchen back at the house, and his panic ebbed, but only slightly. His wrists were bound to the arms of the chair and his jacket and shoes were missing, his bare feet cold on the tiles. He could smell the old blood that stained the front of his clothes. Across from him sat Lucian in a similar hard backed chair, jaw clenched and arms folded tightly across his chest, looking at him expectantly. Mitchell had always thought that the older man's eyes seemed to change color according to his mood; now they reminded him of a stormy sea. Lucian was furious.

"Well," he began, his voice deadly calm. "Are you going to explain what happened last night or do I have to piece it together for myself?"

"Did you take my shoes?" asked Mitchell, genuinely confused. His brain was a little fuzzy and he was definitely hung over.

"Don't change the subject," he answered shortly.

"I had shoes on," he pressed on as if he hadn't heard. Of course, he was still trying to piece together what exactly _had_ happened last night. "I don't remember taking them off."

"What _do_ you remember?" asked Lucian impatiently. He sounded exhausted.

Mitchell paused as his muddled thoughts finally started to come together. He could recall the taste of blood, the all too familiar feeling of detachment; as if he had somehow stepped outside of himself and was watching the events unfold from beyond. He remembered a struggle in a dark alley; feeling trapped. "You hit me," he answered almost petulantly.

Lucian gave him a measured look. "You were a bit beyond reason at that point."

"That still doesn't explain why you took my shoes," he said, though why it was so important, Lucian didn't have the slightest idea. Maybe he wasn't hung over; he was starting to think he was still drunk.

Lucian sighed heavily and rose from his chair. "Because it's difficult to run without shoes on," he stated matter-of-factly, pacing the floor in agitation. He was losing his patience. "Because when I found you, drunk, a quarter of a mile from the house, standing over a corpse, covered in blood, you tried to run away-"

"So, you left me here, tied to a chair all night-"

"You killed a man last night, John!"

Mitchell flinched at the tone. He had never seen the older man so angry, least of all at him. He averted his gaze, sinking a little lower in his chair. "He attacked me," he defended weakly.

"He was _human_," he answered. "I'm sure you could have handled it without _tearing the man's throat out_."

Mitchell said nothing.

"There are others here, you know," Lucian went on, pacing the floor behind him before stopping to lean against the kitchen sink off to his right. "Other vampires policing the area and cleaning up the messes when things go wrong. We have a system. Now, how do you think it went when I had to call this one in?"

He remained silent, staring hard at the opposite wall.

"I had to cover for you, that's how," he snapped. "I told them I'd dealt with it. I lied. I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I shouldn't have."

Mitchell swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the tiles at his feet. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

"You're _sorry_?" He pushed off the counter and approached his chair, stopping just a couple feet away from him. "You think saying you're sorry is going to fix this?"

He closed his eyes as he began to feel the burn of tears beginning to form and shook his head miserably.

Lucian heaved a sigh, passing both hands over his face tiredly. "I want to know why this happened in the first place," he went on, sounding strained. "Ten years, Mitchell. You've managed this for _ten years_ and you just threw it all away, and for what? If you were struggling, you should have told me. I would have helped you-"

"It wasn't that," he answered, struggling to keep his voice steady. "It was fine before, I just… lost control-"

"Because you decided to drink yourself senseless last night?" said Lucian tersely, crossing the room and turning to lean against the opposite counter, folding his arms across his chest.

Mitchell tried to form a response, but he found himself unable to speak past the lump in his throat. He simply nodded.

Lucian looked exasperated. He dropped his arms to his sides, bracing his hands against the counter behind him. "_Why?_"

He drew a shaky breath, casting his eyes about the room, looking anywhere but at Lucian while he struggled to find his voice again. Then he saw it; yesterdays paper still lying on the kitchen table. "Look in there," he managed, indicating it with a nod.

Lucian furrowed his brow, following the path of his gaze. "The newspaper?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow at him. He pushed off the counter and crossed the room, picking the paper up off the table and glancing over the headlines. "And what exactly am I looking for?" he asked.

"Flip to the back," he said hoarsely, staring at the ceiling. "The obituaries. You'll know it when you see it."

Lucian took a seat at the table and, hesitantly, did as he was asked, flipping through the pages until he came to the obituaries. He scanned through the names, looking for anything that might seem familiar, until about halfway down the page, he stopped, sparing Mitchell a glance over the top of the page; but he was as still as a statue. After a moment's pause while he read the short entry, he refolded the paper and set it aside, passing a hand over his face with a defeated sigh.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he said softly.

Mitchell shrugged. "It's not an excuse, is it?" he answered flatly.

"No," he said. "But at least it's an explanation." He rose slowly from the table and grabbed the other chair, pulling it over to take a seat directly in front of him. He retrieved a small blade from his pocket and set to work cutting the bonds at his wrists, and for a moment the pair sat in silence. "I'm sorry about your brother," he said when he'd finished one side. "But you can't allow yourself to lose control like that. It isn't safe; for you or anyone else. At least when you're on your own. I wish you had come to me."

"You were out," he answered simply.

"You knew where I was, you could have come and found me," said Lucian as he finished the other side, folding the knife and depositing it back in his pocket. "Or at least waited until I got back." He passed a hand gingerly over his wrist, feeling a twinge of guilt as he examined the raw skin where he had pulled at the bonds all night. Mitchell didn't seem to notice.

"I wanted to be alone for a while," he said. "I just wanted to go out and get hammered and _not think_." He sighed. "I wanted to forget."

Lucian looked at him sadly; not sympathetic, but with the sort of deep seeded understanding that can only be known by one who has walked a similar path and endured the same kind of pain. "It doesn't work," he said. "You might forget for a time, a matter of hours perhaps, but it only resurfaces that much worse when you come back to your senses. Besides, moving on isn't about forgetting; it's about _remembering_, and learning to go on with your life in spite of what you've lost. Even though all the world seems changed."

Mitchell sighed. "I just wish I'd gotten to say goodbye," he said softly.

"Then why don't you?" he asked.

He looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"The paper said that the service is being held tomorrow at St. Brigid's," Lucian explained. "In Westbury. That's not far from here."

Mitchell looked doubtful. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asked.

"I'm sure there will be lots of people there," he said. "You could keep to the back. I doubt anyone would question your presence anyway."

When he still looked uncertain, Lucian reached out a hand, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Go, John. It'll do you good."

* * *

><p>The morning sky was overcast as Mitchell stood among the trees in the cemetery, keeping just out of sight of the small group of mourners at his brother's grave. It had been easy enough for him to blend in at the church; there was a fair amount of people attending the service and Lucian had been right. No one had approached him. But with such a small group in attendance for the actual burial, he had decided to be cautious.<p>

He looked on as the last three mourners prepared to depart; a middle aged man with dark curly hair that was beginning to go grey; a woman with long blonde hair who had to be his wife; and a young girl, ten or eleven years old, with hair as long and straight as her mother's but dark like father's. Mitchell realized with a jolt that the man must be his nephew. That would make him great uncle to the little girl who now stood with a rose in her hand, tears streaming down her cheeks as she pressed it to her lips before bending to drop it onto the casket.

As she turned to depart, Mitchell took a slight step forward, unable to stop himself from trying to get a better look. But he wasn't watching his footing and he stepped on a fallen branch, which made a sharp snapping sound under his boot. The little girl's head shot up in his direction and for a moment he thought he'd been spotted; there was a flash of recognition in her dark brown eyes. He ducked out of sight and remained still.

"Jo?" he heard the woman call out. "What are you looking at, sweetheart?"

"I thought I saw…" she trailed off, and seeming to think better of her answer, replied, "It was nothing, Mom. Never mind." She sounded disappointed.

"Well, come on then," her mother answered. "It's time to go."

Mitchell breathed a sigh of relief as the group finally began to depart, but he did not move from his hiding spot until he heard the car pull away and the only sound to be heard was that of the birds chirping in the nearby trees. He realized belatedly that the groundskeepers would soon be returning to finish the burial now that the mourners had departed and realized that he didn't have much time. He was about to approach the grave when something made him stop short; a voice he hadn't heard in over sixty years.

"John?"

He turned around slowly and found himself face to face with a young man in his late teens, just a few inches shorter than him, wearing brown slacks and a white cotton shirt from a bygone era, his boots muddy from the morning's chores around the farm. He had a head of messy dark curls that perpetually hung in his eyes; a stunning blue, often the only way anyone had ever told them apart when they were younger. He looked exactly as he did the last time Mitchell saw him; the day he'd gone off to war.

"Johnny, is that you?" he asked, his eyes wide and hopeful.

"Yeah, Joe, it's me," he answered when he finally found his voice.

The next thing he knew, he was being pulled into a crushing hug; he never knew a ghost could be so… _substantial_, but he was grateful. He hugged him back just as tightly, and when he closed his eyes he could just imagine standing in front of the old farm house when he had said goodbye to him then; not knowing he would never return. For just a moment, he could almost believe that it had all been a dream.

When they finally separated and Joe took a step back, holding him at arm's length, he was immediately snapped back to reality. This wasn't his childhood home in the Irish countryside; there was a busy street nearby and he could hear the sounds of the traffic. Somewhere overhead the sound of a commercial jet could be heard making its final descent into JFK.

"You look… different," said Joe, looking a little puzzled.

Mitchell grinned halfheartedly. "Too modern?" he said, indicating his jeans and leather jacket.

He furrowed his brow, studying him critically. "You're not-"

"A ghost?" He shook his head. "No. I'm just a lot older than I look."

Joe must have seen something of the haunted look in his eyes, for when he spoke, he sounded much older than his apparent 17 years. "What happened to you, John?"

Mitchell smiled at him sadly. "It's a long story."

* * *

><p>The pair sat on a bench in the middle of the cemetery as Mitchell recounted his life up to that point, beginning with his encounter with Herrick on the battlefield; his failed attempt to save the lives of his men, and all his endeavors since. It was something of a relief, Mitchell thought strangely, confessing these things to his brother. He didn't go into a tremendous amount of detail, of course. He was too ashamed for that. But it was enough.<p>

"I don't understand," said Joe when he'd finished. "Why didn't you ever come home? We would have given anything to know you were alright."

"But I wasn't alright," he answered. "And besides, how could I just come home? How could I face any of you knowing what I'd done? I was a monster, Joe. The things I did-"

"Maybe we could've helped you."

Mitchell shook his head. "I could've hurt you-"

"That never would've happened," he answered fiercely. "You would never have been capable of that."

"I was capable of a lot of things I would never have done," said Mitchell softly. "I was an evil thing. A damned soul." He sighed. "I still am."

Joe gave him a hard look, and his eyes seemed very old for such a young face; much as Mitchell's did now. "I don't believe that for a second," he said.

"And why is that?" he asked, humoring his younger brother.

Joe actually grinned. "Look at where we're sitting, John!"

He looked puzzled. "In the cemetery?"

"On hallowed ground," said Joe, elbowing him in the ribs. It actually kind of hurt. "And you were up at the church earlier as well. Don't you see? Evil can't set foot on hallowed ground. You're not a 'damned soul,' Johnny."

"But the things I've done-"

He shook his head impatiently. "Didn't you learn anything growing up? Our mother and father raised us good Catholic boys. Don't you remember anything about forgiveness?"

Mitchell sighed. "You're starting to sound like somebody else I know."

"Good," said Joe. "I can be at peace then knowing there's somebody around to look after you and you're hard head!"

"Look after _me_?" He laughed. "I thought _I _was the older brother here."

"I've been a father _and_ a grandfather," answered Joe. "I think my experience trumps your age."

"So, why did you leave Ireland?" asked Mitchell, partly to turn the conversation from himself, but also because he wanted to know more about his brother's life.

He heaved a sigh, suddenly looking sad. "It was mostly out of necessity," he began. "The black and tans had started terrorizing the countryside, looking for rebels. They came to the house to question me; thought I knew one of the lads that had attacked a patrol a couple nights before. As you can imagine, Da wouldn't stand for it. He said he'd already sacrificed one son to the British Army and that I'd been wounded in the same service. He said that was no way for them to treat their veterans. They didn't take too kindly to it. We were lucky Da and I weren't shot on sight. They took it out on the livestock instead; the horse and both our dairy cows. They burned the barn. We lost everything. I just managed to get us out of the country before they burned Cork. There was no getting out after that."

Mitchell sat with his hands clenched tightly in his lap. He shook his head miserably. "I should've been there," he said.

"Then we _definitely_ would have been shot," answered Joe with a laugh. "You never learned how to pick your battles, John. You would have come out swinging and none of us would have lived to talk about it."

Mitchell said nothing, mostly because he knew it was true.

"We had a good life after that, Johnny," he went on. It was hard at first, but we made it. I'd always had skill with woodwork, so I became a carpenter. I did well enough to take care of the three of us. Then I met my Cathy, she was a school teacher. Then came Connor." He sighed. "I wish you could meet them," he said sadly. "Especially little Jo. They named her after me, but she always reminded me of you; her free spirit, her penchant for mischief, her temper-"

"I do not have a temper!" he insisted, but he was smiling.

"Yes you do! That's what always got you into trouble. I always had to be the level headed one," Joe answered with a cheeky grin. "We gave our son your name though, Cathy and I," he continued, his tone a little more serious.

"I thought his name was Connor," said Mitchell.

"Connor _John_," he corrected. "I suppose I couldn't bear giving it as his first name." He shook his head sadly. "It would've felt too much like admitting you were gone."

"I'm sorry, Joe," he said. "I wanted so much to see you all again. I just… I was so…"

"I understand now," said Joe. "You were wrong, but I understand. You've had a hard life, John. You've had a lot to overcome."

Mitchell simply nodded.

"I need you to promise me something," he continued. "What I was saying before, about forgiveness-"

He sighed. "Do you really believe that still applies to me?"

"I do," said Joe, determination in his gaze. "With all my heart, I do. You remember that whole 'for God so loved the world' thing?"

Mitchell quirked an eyebrow at him. "John 3:16?" he said with a laugh.

"I'm being serious," he answered, giving him a hard look. "But I'm glad to hear you at least remember _something_ of your upbringing."

"What about it?" asked Mitchell, trying not to laugh. He was starting to feel like he was talking to his grandfather, not his baby brother.

"Well," said Joe expectantly, "you're still a part of this world, aren't you?"

"Yeah," he said. "I suppose I am."

"Then it still applies," said Joe. "You promise me that you'll remember that."

Mitchell stared at him for a moment, breaking into a weak smile. "I'll try," he said.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," said Joe. "All you can do now is the best you can. And it sounds like you've got at least one person that cares about you very much and that wants to help you. _Let him_. If you're still here, I believe it's for a reason. Try to do some good in this world; help someone that no one else will, be a good friend."

Mitchell shook his head. "You've always thought much better of me than I deserved," he said.

"That's because I've always believed in you," he answered with a grin.

Mitchell sighed. "What I really don't understand is why _you're_ still here. You lived a full life, you had a family; you should have moved on."

"You mean you're wondering about my 'unfinished business?'" asked Joe, giving him a knowing look.

"Yeah, I suppose," he answered.

"I'd been wondering that myself the last couple of days," said Joe. "I was afraid I'd wander the earth on my own forever. But I think I know what I was waiting for now."

Mitchell shook his head. "I don't understand."

"It was you, John," he said. "I never could accept that you were gone. I spent my whole life wondering what had really happened to you." He smiled. "Now I know."

Across the way, Mitchell saw something flash at the corner of his eye like sunlight, only they were facing the wrong direction for it to have been. He turned to the source and saw a strange sight; a doorway standing on its own between two adjacent fence posts. He swallowed hard past the lump in his throat, knowing what it was on sight though he had never actually witnessed it before.

"It's your door," said Mitchell.

"Yes, I believe it is," said Joe. He was on his feet now, eyeing the door with a mix of wonder and apprehension. He looked back at Mitchell over his shoulder. "I guess this is goodbye then," he said.

Mitchell could only nod.

As he got to his feet, Joe approached him wordlessly and pulled him into a hug.

"I wish I could go with you," said Mitchell, finally allowing his tears to flow freely. "I've missed you so much."

"I missed you too," he answered. "But it isn't your time yet. You have had so much taken away from you, Johnny. There's still a chance for you to get some of it back. I will see you again."

Mitchell could say nothing, he simply held on tighter, dropping his head down onto his little brother's shoulder; breathing him in one last time. He smelled like home.

"I'll tell Mam and Da," said Joe. "I'll tell them what really happened and that you're alright now. They were so desperate to know."

"I love you," he choked out through his tears. "I love you so much. Tell Mam and Da I love them too. Tell them I'm sorry."

"I love you too," he answered. "And I will. I'll tell them."

Mitchell finally forced himself to let go and Joe approached the door. He reached for the handle and slowly began to push it open. Through the crack, Mitchell could see nothing but golden light. Before he stepped through, Joe turned to face him one last time.

"John?" he called.

"Yeah, Joe?" he answered hoarsely.

He broke into a grin, the light seeming to dance off his eyes. "I still believe in you," he said. And he stepped inside, and the door was gone.

* * *

><p><strong><em>…<em>**

**_…_**

**_…_**

**_I MADE MYSELF LEGITIMATELY CRY WITH THIS ONE THAT HAS NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE AND I'M SORRY. Seriously though. I wrote the end of this thing through my tears…_**

**_Anyway…_**

**_Hello my lovely readers! It's been forever, I know. My life has been a mess lately which unfortunately has translated into a massive delay in my writing of late. This one-shot took quite a different turn (and ended up quite a bit longer) than I originally intended, but I suppose that is because the subject is very close to my heart at the moment…_**

**_On May 13th, my aunt was moved into hospice after a long and painful battle with leukemia. She had finally had enough of all the treatments and being sick all the time and decided that she wanted to go home. She went to Heaven to be with her son, whom we lost nearly twenty years ago, and so many others on the 19th of May. I had the privilege of getting to spend some of her last days with her along with the rest of my family. It was a long hard week._**

**_On a lighter note, I am currently in the middle of some much needed vacation time, which I had set aside for the primary purpose of focusing on my writing. This is the result of that endeavor as well as… drum roll please… _**

**_The first chapter of REVOLUTION!_**

**_Which I will be posting within the next couple of days. So, if you're not following me already, you might want to do so if you would like notification of when the chapter gets posted as it will be published as a new story, much as the others were. ;)_**

**_In related news, _**_**I have an announcement to make:**_

**_Since I started this series, I have fallen more and more in love with Lucian Harcourt and have done a lot of work developing his character. I have wanted to write something original for a while, but I couldn't come up with any ideas that I loved as much as I have loved writing this series. Then I realized… Lucian's character is entirely my own, why not do something with him? And so, I am pleased to announce that I have officially begun work on my first original novel._**

**_It's obviously still in the very early stages, so things are constantly being rewritten, but the story will center around Lucian and a fairly young vampire named Jo; the inner workings of vampire society; and the constant battle to rid the world of Rogue vampires. Oh! And then there's the problem of the pair struggling to play the roles of adoptive father and older sister to a young boy named Alex who was orphaned by a vampire attack. Things get more complicated as he gets older… but I shall reveal no more. ;)_**

**_So that being said, I promise not to abandon the War Chronicles! I am determined to finish the series before I get into any serious writing on the other project. I also plan to keep the "Untold" branch going indefinitely. There will still be stories to tell when the series itself is finished. :)_**

**_Thank you for your patience! (As well as plowing through this OBSCENELY LONG author's note.) _**

**_Please share your thoughts! I've missed you guys. ^_^_**

**_P.S. Yes. I know. I've broken vampire law and chucked the whole holy ground/crucifix thing from the rules for this (as well as my upcoming original series) because of reasons. That is all. :)_**


	5. Blood

Summary: Blood calls out for blood...

* * *

><p><strong><span>Blood<span>**

_London, February 1994_

Mitchell stood outside the entrance to the hospital, arms folded tightly across his chest. He must look a sight, he thought; blood on his face and drenching the front of his shirt- though he hid it pretty well with his jacket. His eyes fell closed for a moment as the doctor's words rang in his ears, _I'm sorry. She didn't make it._ He sighed. She was only twenty. If he had only gotten there sooner…

He was pulled from his thoughts as he sensed a presence approaching and his eyes flew open. Clenching his jaw, he fixed his gaze on the all too familiar figure striding towards him clad in a police uniform, looking as smug as ever.

"Nasty business," said Herrick, coming to a halt just out of arm's reach.

Mitchell simply glared at him and stood a little straighter, hugging his arms a bit tighter around his frame.

"Heard you played quite the hero though," he continued. "Taking care of that rogue. Pity it was already too late for the girl."

"Her name was Becca," Mitchell shot back.

"There's no need to get testy," said Herrick. "Who was she to you anyway? You couldn't have known her for more than a couple of months."

"What the hell are you even doing here?" demanded Mitchell. "I thought I told you to stay away from me. And besides, Darius has the run of the entire city. If anyone catches you-"

Herrick paused, narrowing his eyes at him inquisitively. "You haven't heard, have you?" he said.

"Heard what?" he answered shortly.

"I've been given a pardon," said Herrick, "so long as I keep the local population in check. I suppose you could say I'm one of the good guys now."

Mitchell stared at him. "Bullshit."

"Well, maybe not one of the good guys, but no one's going to prove that," Herrick sneered. "But I've been given immunity. Got off the Old Ones' naughty list in favor of catching a bigger fish. I'd have thought your Lucian would've told you that."

Mitchell clenched his jaw, averting his gaze. He said nothing.

"I see," the older man sneered. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to work," he said. "Be seeing you, Mitchell." And he turned on his heel, leaving Mitchell glaring at his back.

He watched his Sire reenter the hospital- a growing sense of dread settling in the pit of his stomach at his parting words. It never failed. No matter where he went Herrick seemed to follow close behind. He could usually sense it; that familiar pull that was almost physical to the point where, on more than one occasion, he had found himself walking the streets at night not knowing how he had arrived at his destination. If he wasn't careful he could lose himself to it and then he would be right back where he left off more than thirty years ago- like a puppet on a string. Sure, he had gotten better to the point that he could almost completely block out his Sire's influence, but it usually took some other distraction- or rather some_one_ to help him keep his focus. And with Lucian gone…

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye but he nearly dismissed it; chalking it up to his mind playing tricks on him. But as the figure purposefully moved closer, he shifted his gaze- and his breath caught in his throat.

Lucian strode forward with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, heavy boots tapping on the pavement. He came to a halt directly in front of Mitchell and offered a weak smile.

"You look like you've had a hell of a night," he said.

Mitchell simply blinked a few times in response, his jaw tight. He swallowed hard.

Lucian's expression softened. "Come here," he said, reaching a hand and pulling him towards him.

He stepped forward into the embrace and hugged him back tightly, his shoulders relaxing as he felt as if a weight had just been lifted off his shoulders. As he felt a hand on the back of his head, he allowed his eyes to fall closed for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and musk. Eventually he pulled back, allowing Lucian to inspect him at arm's length.

He cupped his chin, the corners of his mouth turning down in a frown as his gaze came to rest on the dried blood on his cheek.

"It's not mine," said Mitchell, pulling away and averting his gaze.

Lucian simply nodded. "Come on," he said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "I'll take you home."

He led him around to the side of the building where a car was parked on the street, keeping a loose grip on his arm as Mitchell allowed himself to be led along in silence. He was reaching down to open the passenger side door when a voice from behind stopped him in his tracks.

"Hey, Lucian."

The man's voice was familiar, and it only took one look at Mitchell for him to confirm the identity of the speaker without even turning around. He set his jaw and pulled on the handle, placing a hand on the younger man's back to urge him forward.

"Get in the car," he said.

Mitchell hesitated until, with one last glance between his Sire and Lucian, he eventually ducked inside, folding his hands in his lap as the door fell closed behind him.

Lucian straightened and turned on his heel, taking slow and deliberate strides towards the man in the police uniform.

"What do you want, Herrick?" he demanded, folding his arms across his chest as he came to a halt.

Herrick sneered, taking a moment to size him up before opening his mouth to speak. "I thought you might like to hear the official report on the events of this evening," he said.

Lucian shook his head. "You don't report to me," he answered shortly. "You report directly to Darius- as was discussed. I'm not working with you and I have no interest in anything that you have to say."

"Not even if it's about Mitchell?" asked Herrick placidly.

Lucian stepped forward with his fists clenched at his sides until they stood just inches apart, towering over the smaller man's frame.

"Now you listen to me," he growled. "I don't give a damn about your pardon, your immunity, or anything else the Council promised you. You stay away from Mitchell and you stay away from me. Because if you step so much as one toe out of line I swear to God I will make you disappear and no one will so much as bat an eye. All I need is an excuse."

Lucian took a step back as a pair of uniformed officers rounded the corner, glancing between the two suspiciously.

"Everything alright here?" asked one of the officers, addressing the blond.

"Oh, everything's fine," answered Herrick, not taking his eyes off Lucian. "Just chatting with an old friend. Carry on gentleman."

The officers exchanged glances uncertainly, but they continued on their way, leaving the two vampires staring at their backs until they rounded the next corner and disappeared from sight..

"We're done here," said Lucian, turning to head back to the car.

"There's an old saying," said Herrick, causing the older man to pause, "'Blood calls out for blood.' We are of the same blood; Mitchell and I. You can't keep him from me forever."

Lucian turned to glance at him over his shoulder, and there was a challenge in his gaze. "Watch me," he said, and he turned his back on Herrick once more.

* * *

><p>Mitchell was silent for most of the drive, staring down at the blood stained hands in his lap. All the while the same scene kept playing over and over in his head; a woman's scream, a pair of black eyes, a growing pool of blood… He was so consumed by his own thoughts that he nearly gave a start when Lucian broke the silence.<p>

"You look pale," he said, sparing him a sideways glance as he kept his focus on the road. "When was the last time you fed?"

He shrugged. "Couple of days," he answered noncommittally. "Maybe a week."

Lucian sighed inwardly. "Is there enough at home or do I need to stop off?" he asked.

"Should be enough," he answered.

They spent the remainder of the drive in silence.

Lucian parked along the side of the building and led the way up the stairs to the apartment. He locked the door behind them as Mitchell slipped past, mumbling something about cleaning up before disappearing into his room. Shifting his bag on his shoulder, Lucian wandered down the hall, passing Mitchell's room and the bathroom before coming to a closed door at the end of the hall. He turned the handle and stepped inside.

His room was exactly as he left it; bed made but with a few discarded articles of clothing draped over one end. Some of the dresser drawers were pulled halfway out; the remnants of his hasty packing job, and an extra pair of boots sat on the floor in front of the closet. He dropped his bag on the bed and started unpacking; sorting out things for washing and tossing the rest back in the open drawers. He'd worry about organizing it later.

He could hear the shower running as he stepped back out into the hall, making his way to the kitchen. He wasn't all that surprised to find the sink full of dirty dishes from who knows when and the dishwasher empty. There was a decent supply of blood in the refrigerator, the rest of the space taken up by half empty take away containers and a questionable carton of milk. He got rid of the milk- which proved to be past its time upon further inspection- and loaded the dishwasher. There was just enough detergent left under the sink for one load. With this task complete, he rummaged around in the cabinets until he managed to find a box of tea and a clean pair of mugs, and plugged in the electric kettle by the sink.

A few minutes later, Mitchell emerged clad in a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt, a towel draped across his shoulders. He glanced around the now clean kitchen and back at Lucian sheepishly.

"You didn't have to do that," he mumbled, rubbing his damp curls with the towel.

The older man simply shrugged, sliding one of the steaming mugs across the kitchen table towards him.

Mitchell accepted it with a nod and took a seat.

Lucian sat down across from him, allowing the mug to warm his hands as he studied the younger man in silence. Beneath the harsh florescent lighting he looked even paler than he had in the car, and the hands that held the mug were trembling slightly. As his gaze came to rest on his face, he could see that his eyes were red.

"So who was she?" he asked, breaking the silence, "The girl."

Mitchell tightened his grip on the mug and set it back down on the table, holding it between his hands. "A friend," he answered simply. "I met her at the hospital."

"The hospital?" asked Lucian, his brow furrowed.

He nodded. "Yeah, I took a cleaning job there," he said. "Figured it would be low profile- nobody would notice me."

Lucian frowned. "But why take a job in the first place?" he asked. "If you needed money-"

"You've been gone for six months," Mitchell said evenly. "I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't just _sit_ here and do nothing. It was driving me mad!" He shifted uncomfortably in his char. "I just needed to be out in the world. Plus, I thought, being in the hospital I could sort of- I don't know- keep an eye on things."

"And the girl?" asked Lucian.

Mitchell stared down at the mug in his hands, his shoulders slumped. "Becca," he said, not lifting his gaze. "She was one of the nurses. She was nice. In fact, she was the only nurse who didn't treat me like I was beneath her. I knew I shouldn't get involved with a human, even just as a friend, but- we got to talking. I took her out tonight. It was just for a few drinks, but I realized she was looking for more than that. I guess I had given her the wrong idea because when I told her I didn't think we should take it further she got upset and left. I offered to see her home- maybe I should have followed her anyway, but I didn't. I just finished my drink and left. Then I heard the scream. By the time I got that rogue off of her…" He trailed off, clutching the mug between his hands. It was starting to go cold.

"It wasn't your fault," said Lucian.

He shook his head. "But if I hadn't-"

"Mitchell," he admonished softly, "don't. Don't do this to yourself. You can't blame yourself for what someone else has done. You couldn't have known what was going to happen."

He heaved a sigh, his eyes falling closed as leaned his head back against the chair. "You knew about Herrick, didn't you?" he asked after a moment's silence, staring up at the ceiling.

When Lucian gave no answer, he leaned forward in his chair, regarding the older man with a frown. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I came back as soon as I heard," said Lucian, finally looking up from the mug in his hands. "That wasn't really a conversation I wanted to have over the phone and I'd hoped it wouldn't come up before I returned. I'm sorry."

"You know he's just playing them, don't you?" said Mitchell. "He'll do anything to survive; tell any lie. That's what he does."

"I know," he answered. "Unfortunately I wasn't consulted on this. They thought the issue was too- personal. But Darius is no fool. I'm sure he has others keeping a close eye on him."

"We'll see," he muttered.

Lucian rose from his seat with his empty mug in hand. "You should get some sleep," he said, giving Mitchell's shoulder a squeeze as he passed. "You look exhausted."

He rinsed his mug and set it in the sink before crossing to the refrigerator and reaching inside. "But first-"

Mitchell lifted a hand as the bag came flying towards him, catching it easily. He turned it over in his hand, staring down at the red liquid with a frown.

"I can tell you haven't been drinking enough," said Lucian, giving him a pointed look.

Mitchell sighed. There was no arguing with _that_ look; and anyway, the older man was right. He would just have to bear it because, in all honestly, he'd already seen enough blood for one night.

* * *

><p><strong><em>I'm aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive! And I haven't forgotten about this series, I swear.<em>**

**_So, 2015 did not get off to a good start for me. Let me just say that funerals suck. I'll spare you the details. Anyway, that was a month ago and I'm looking to move forward._**

**_I HAVE MISSED THIS SO MUCH._**

**_My novel writing is at a bit of a standstill, but this verse sort of ties in to that project and I have SO MISSED WRITING MITCHELL that I felt like it was time to come back!_**

**_I'll say again, I have rather regretted writing Herrick out so early in the War Chronicles series, so I love doing these flashbacks._**

**_This one-shot was inspired by the first episode of Being Human. That scene where Mitchell is standing outside the hospital after finding out that Becca died always rips my heart out. He just looks so painfully alone in that scene to me that I've been dying to write Lucian into it (I NEED TO FIX IT), so there you go. After working on this one on and off for over a month I'm still not 100% thrilled with it, but I hope it came out okay._**

**_I have written a good chunk of the next chapter of Revolution and have a pretty good idea of where it's going. I'm really hoping to be able to update it soon (if I can just stay motivated), so stay tuned!_**

**_Thank you so much for your patience and please please please let me know your thoughts on this! Reviews give me life. :)_**

**_P.S. (As I forgot to mention upon first posting.) You'll be meeting Darius later on in Revolution. He's an old friend of Lucian's who carries some serious weight with the Council; not to mention the fact that he's a total badass. ;) My casting choice for him is the one and only Idris Elba. I hope to get to him soon!_**


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